With a sigh, Tris set down his glass. “Vincent served me well during the year I spent in Jamaica. I bought him and freed him before I left.”
She released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “That was a generous thing to do.”
“Merely decent. I cannot countenance one man owning another.”
“But your uncle could.”
He shrugged his ambivalence. “Uncle Harold inherited the plantation—and its slaves—as part of his wife’s dowry. Under his ownership, the slaves were treated well, and during the time I spent there and after I returned, we talked many times of freeing them. He wasn’t particularly comfortable owning men. But he feared the financial repercussions of setting them free, and he was of the opinion that it was only a matter of time—a short time, in the scheme of things—before legislation would emancipate them all and take the decision out of his hands. I agreed with him on that point.”
“There has been no legislation.”
“There will be. Soon.” He polished off the last of his trifle and sat back, lifting his glass. “Uncle Harold wanted to wait. He felt sorry for the slaves’ plight, but he feared they’d be in a worse situation as free men on a plantation that could no longer compete successfully in the marketplace.”
“And you agreed.”
“In theory, perhaps. In practice, no.” He paused for a sip. “The first action I took upon inheriting the marquessate was freeing all our slaves in Jamaica.”
She’d known he was kind. She reached across the corner of the table to take his hand. “And have there been consequences?”
“Making a profit has proven difficult,” he admitted quietly. “But does it matter? There are more important things than property values and income.” He squeezed her fingers. “A fellow has to live with himself if he’s to sleep at night.”
Sleep. She’d wager he hadn’t noticed his own reference, but this, she knew, was not a man who could commit murder. Not even unknowingly in his sleep.
He drew a deep breath and released it, setting down his wineglass. “Are you finished?”
She nodded, suppressing her discomposure. There was no reason to fret, she told herself sternly. She had no doubt she’d be happy with Tris—being a wife was a big change, to be sure, but his home, his disposition, and his values were all more than she could ask for in a husband. Not to mention, he was more than attractive—why, she could happily do nothing but kiss him for the rest of her life! The marriage bed was a normal part of every marriage, and Alexandra was ready for it.
Wasn’t she?
She found herself inordinately relieved when Tris stood and asked, “Would you like to see more of the house?”
“That would be lovely,” she said with a grateful smile.
As they exited the room, Rex rose with a gigantic yawn. He trotted after them across the great hall, up the stairs, and through the gallery with the open floor. Alexandra resisted pausing to gawk again at the famous paintings. At the other end of the gallery, a door led to a large, square room with gilded paneling on the walls and various chairs and sofas set about.
“The north drawing room,” Tris said.
“It’s beautiful.” She walked over to an exquisite harpsichord, its case inlaid with multicolored woods. Sitting on the petit-point stool, she hit a few keys experimentally. “Johannes Ruckers,” she read out loud from where the maker’s name was painted above the keyboard.
“Has he a good reputation?” Tris asked from behind her.
“I haven’t the slightest idea. This looks very old. I don’t expect his company is making instruments anymore.”
“Can you play it?”
“Probably.” Since the harpsichord was much narrower than a pianoforte, the keyboard was split in two, with one half over the other. She swiveled on the stool to face him. “I shall enjoy trying it. But is there no pianoforte?”
He shook his head. “I’ll get one for you.”
“You needn’t go to so much trouble—”
“I want you to feel at home here.” He raised her to stand and pressed a warm kiss to her lips.
Rex barked. His tail thumped the wooden floor, sounding much like a slap.
“I don’t think he likes me kissing you,” Tris observed.
“He’s jealous. Until now you were all his.”
“He’s not mine. I told you—”
“That’s not what he thinks.”
Tris stared hard at the dog, opened his mouth, then shut it. “Well, he’s going to have to get used to sharing me. Come see the long gallery.”
Rex followed them through another door into a lengthy tunnel of a room. A room that called for quiet. Woven matting on the parquet floor muffled their footsteps. Large paintings in heavy gilt frames were spaced evenly along the dark paneled walls.
Even Rex kept quiet as they walked along slowly, gazing at the pictures. The painters here weren’t important; this gallery was all about their subjects. Gentlemen in silks and velvets, ladies in stiff white neck ruffs.
“Some are older than the house,” Alexandra observed softly. “Are they family?”
“Nesbitts, one and all.”
A few of the names were familiar from inside her ring. Henry and Elizabeth. James and Sarah. She stopped to study a canvas whose brass plaque read WILLIAM AND ANNE. The painting showed that particular Lord Hawkridge standing behind his seated lady, who held a white kitten on her lap. Her blue eyes looked kind, and Alexandra could almost see her graceful fingers stroking the silky, purring cat.
“They look happy,” she decided.
The next couple, Randal and Lily, looked happy as well. “1680,” she read off the plaque. The man had gray eyes, like Tris’s. His hair looked like Tris’s, too, but longer, and a huge dog that looked just like Rex sat at his feet. A small child stood at his side, still in skirts so she couldn’t tell its gender. The man’s hand rested on the shoulder of his pretty, dark-haired lady, who beamed a smile at the baby in her arms.
Alexandra smiled in response. “Everyone here has been happy. I can feel it, can’t you? This is a good house. A real home.” History and tradition fairly oozed from the walls.
“My uncle wasn’t happy,” Tris disagreed quietly.
“Not after his family died, of course. But before?”
“He was happy,” Tris conceded. Evidently unwilling to promise that they would be happy too, he gave her another kiss instead, short but heartfelt.
She would swear she heard Rex snort.
“The library is through here,” Tris said.
It was a lofty, two-story chamber with dark shelving crammed with important-looking books. Alexandra walked over to pull one out and flip idly through it, the old pages crackling as she turned them.
“You don’t want to read now, do you?” Stepping up behind her, Tris bent to kiss her neck.
“Not really.” Tingling warmth spread from where his lips met her skin. He reached around her to take the book from her hands and set it on a small table, and she turned in his arms.
Rex’s bark echoed up to the laurel wreath in the center of the high ceiling.
“See why I lock him out of my rooms?” Tris asked with a sigh.
“I hope it’s not because you kiss a lot of girls in there.”
“Only one,” he said with a soft smile that made her skin tingle even more than the kiss. “Would you like to escape the beast and go there now?”
Her heart thumped harder than Rex’s tail. “Aren’t there more rooms I haven’t seen?”
“None that cannot wait until tomorrow.” He skimmed his fingertips over her cheek, ignoring Rex’s protest. The pad of his thumb brushed her lips.
She pressed a hand to her chest. A faint smile curving his bruised mouth, he lifted that hand and skimmed his lips over the knuckles before lacing his fingers through hers.
Rex dogged their steps all the way back through the long gallery, the north drawing room, and the round gallery. Tris quickened their pace into the corridor and pas
t the Queen’s Bedchamber. By the time they reached his rooms, they were running. Alexandra laughed at the absurdity. When they finally dashed through his bedroom door and he whirled and all but slammed it in Rex’s face, she laughed even harder.
Rex whined once, barked three times, then padded away, his big feet thudding with each step.
“He knows when to give up,” she observed with more giggles. Laughing had relieved her feelings, calming her nerves.
“You find this humorous?” Tris returned with mock severity. Without waiting for an answer, he dragged her into his arms and silenced her with a kiss.
It was a kiss of desperate tenderness, a kiss that quickly escalated. Though she wondered if the pressure hurt his swollen mouth, she wasn’t about to pull away. Tris-scent filled her senses: fresh air and soap and that elusive something she thought of as him. He tasted of Tris and the wine from dinner, and she thought it was the most delicious flavor she could imagine.
When he finally released her, she was unsteady on her feet.
“You’re not laughing anymore,” he said with a smirk.
“Laughing? I think I forgot to even breathe.”
The smirk widened as he walked away to turn down the gas lamps. There were four of them mounted on the walls, two on each side of the room. Even battered and bruised, he moved easily, gracefully, so tall and striking in the wedding outfit his valet had cobbled together.
Sweet heaven, what had she done to deserve him?
“There,” he said when the room was bathed in a softer, hazier glow. “Isn’t that nicer?”
“It is.” Watching him watch her, she smoothed the white lace dress she’d borrowed from Corinna. “Thank you.”
He shrugged out of his black tailcoat and draped it over the back of one of the striped chairs before he began untying his cravat. As his long fingers worked at the knot, she noticed his tanned hands, their backs lightly sprinkled with hairs that glowed golden in the gaslight. She wanted to walk closer and help him, but she didn’t trust her knees. She was forgetting to breathe again.
After all those years of hopeless, girlish dreaming, to think he was really hers…
It was unbelievable. She swallowed hard—so hard she feared he’d heard it.
“Are you nervous?” he asked, sitting on the chair.
He had heard it. “Not really. Griffin told me what to expect.”
He looked a bit startled. “Did he?”
She nodded.
In truth, this wasn’t going at all the way Griffin had led her to believe. Despite her blithe words, her anxiety was returning. Her legs were trembling. She was grateful when Tris beckoned her over to take the other chair—until he pulled her sideways onto his lap.
Her brother hadn’t said anything about lap-sitting. What else had he failed to mention?
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d sat on anyone’s lap. Sitting on Tris’s lap, leaning into his warmth, made her feel both very childish and very adult at the same time. He began plucking the pins from her hair—which Griffin also had not predicted. “Do you know,” Tris said conversationally, “how much I’ve wanted to do this?”
“How much?” she whispered.
“Too much.” He lowered the heavy mass, finger-combing the curls down her back to her waist. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s terribly unruly.”
“I like it.”
“When are you going to leave so I can get ready for bed?” she asked, her voice coming out a bit shrill.
He gave her a puzzled smile. “I was planning to get you ready for bed myself.”
“Pardon?” That wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen. Griffin had said Tris would leave her, so she could change into her nightgown, and then he’d return wearing a dressing gown. “You’re supposed to leave so I can prepare myself and wait for you in the bed.”
His silvery eyes narrowed. “Says who?”
“Griffin. Griffin told me—”
“Griffin is a muttonhead.” With a hand on her cheek, he turned her face toward him. “Forget whatever he told you, sweetheart. He is singularly unimaginative.” Tris smiled so winningly she couldn’t help but smile back. “Besides which, we needn’t follow anyone’s directions. We’ll simply make it up together as we go.”
Still holding her face, he kissed her again—and her anxiety melted away.
Later, as she drifted off to sleep wrapped in her husband’s arms, she honestly couldn’t recall what had worried her so in the first place.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
GINGERBREAD CAKES
Take three pounds of flour, one pound of sugar, one pound of butter rubbed in very fine, two ounces of ginger beat fine, a large nutmeg grated then take a pound of treacle, a quarter of a pint of cream, make them warm together, and make up the bread stiff. Wait a while and then make round balls like nuts and bake them on tin-plates in a slack oven.
These are reminiscent of home, and excellent with a good gossip.
—Helena, Countess of Greystone, 1783
Alexandra woke first and watched Tris sleep in the dim early light. His lashes lay dark against his cheeks, making him look young and sweet and vulnerable. His chest rose and fell in a slow, even rhythm, his breath drifting in and out between slightly parted lips.
She breathed along with him. She wanted to do everything with him, but for now, breathing would have to do.
When he opened his eyes, she gave him a sleepy smile. He closed the inches between them and pulled her to him. Settling her head beneath his chin, she sighed happily. “I love you.”
He pressed a slow, warm kiss to the top of her head, making her feel all melty inside. But he didn’t say he loved her.
It didn’t signify, she decided, ignoring the stab of hurt. He’d shown her how he felt last night. His wariness was an understandable reaction to his romantic history, and he certainly wasn’t the first young man who found it hard to say those three words. She’d just keep telling him, assuring him, and he’d respond in time. Soon.
He raised his head to peek at the clock on the oak mantel. “Do you always wake before six? I thought ladies all slept until noon.”
“I had a house to run for my brother. And now a house to run for you.”
“For us,” he corrected, making her heart turn over in her chest. Then he kissed her again, his body against hers still overwarm from sleep. She’d always risen immediately upon awakening—but she decided she could get used to lingering.
Sometime later, he rang for Vincent and Peggy, and by seven they were both dressed and in the dining room.
Alexandra smiled at him across the breakfast table. “I cannot believe how happy I am.”
“I’m glad.” His smile more tentative than hers, Tris sipped from a steaming cup of coffee.
“What shall we do today?” She lifted the pretty little jam pot that matched the crested breakfast service, hoping for marmalade but setting it down when she saw the contents were red.
“I believe those are cherry preserves. I asked Vincent to tell Mrs. Pawley you cannot eat strawberries.”
“Oh!” She dipped her knife and happily coated her toast. “Would you care for some?”
“I cannot abide anything sweet in the morning.” He spread butter on his own toast, then speared a bite of eggs. “In answer to your earlier question, I’ll need to make a circuit of the estate today, having been away for a while. There are matters that will require my attention. And I must spend some time at the new gasworks; I’ve left the builders long without my supervision. Would you care to accompany me?”
Alexandra hesitated, realizing that what happened in the bedroom might be the easy part of marriage. Finding the rhythm of their days was going to be more difficult. She had no right to expect a honeymoon following such a hasty wedding, and she suspected Tris would rather not be distracted as he went about his business. Although she wanted to see everything at Hawkridge, this house was her domain.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” she finally said, “I
’d prefer to stay here. I have much to learn to run this household.”
“You have Mrs. Oliver for that.”
“It’s still my responsibility to oversee everything properly.” She set down her teacup.
She had another matter to broach, and there was no sense putting it off.
But as he bit into his toast, she found herself putting it off anyway and looking about the room instead. “How unusual to see wood gilded in a mosaic pattern like that,” she said inanely, referring to the walls.
“It’s not wood.” He set down the toast and lifted his cup. “It’s gold-stamped leather.”
“Is it? I’ve never seen anything like it.”
He sipped and gave her a wry smile. “It was all the rage a hundred and fifty years ago. I’m told it’s supposed to absorb the smells of food, but it doesn’t seem to me that it works.”
“Well, thank goodness for that. A century and a half of accumulated food scents would be a bit much, don’t you think?”
He chuckled, and she drew a deep breath. “How long will you be gone today?”
“I’m not certain. It depends upon what I encounter. Perhaps a few hours, perhaps until evening.” He sipped again, watching her over the cup’s rim. “My offer is still open for you to come along.”
Although it sounded like a sincere invitation, he didn’t look like he particularly wanted her to accept it. “I think I should stay here,” she repeated and squared her shoulders. “But when you return later, perhaps we can discuss strategy.”
“For removing scents from the walls?”
“For mounting a new search for your uncle’s murderer.”
His cup clattered back to its saucer. “No.”
“We must clear your name, Tris,” she said carefully. “For my sisters’ sakes if not our own.”
His gray gaze was resolute. “I told you before, I have no wish to reopen that coil of a case. There can be no good outcome. Either my uncle died in his sleep, in which case there’s nothing to find, or…”
His voice trailed off.
The haunted look in his eyes broke her heart. “You cannot think the only other alternative is that you killed him.”
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